Speak No Evil
by Echoes and Ashes
Summary: What once was broken might never be made whole again... Please read warnings inside before beginning.


**Warnings:** The following story contains semi-graphic violence, torture, and mentions of rape - reader discression is advised.

**A/N:** Story is still a work in progress, meaning updates might not be fast in coming...

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**Speak No Evil**

**By: Echoes and Ashes**

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**Chapter One**

He was in darkness. It felt like an eternity since he'd seen any light outside of the dim lamp that was lit whenever _they _decided to pay him a visit. How long had it been? He couldn't begin to guess. There were no windows, no way for him to account for the passing of time. He couldn't judge by meals, since he only received the odd scrap of food, barely enough to keep him alive, nor could he judge by his sleeping patterns, since they had a habit of returning for another session seemingly the moment he'd actually managed to bring himself to sleep. His waste bucket was only occasionally emptied, revealing no pattern. For all he knew, he could've been there for a year, although he imagined he would likely be long dead before even six months had passed, considering the brutality of each visit.

Often times, he found himself wishing for death, silently begging for it before and during each session, only to be disappointed when they stopped just short of killing him, and departed with promises to return once he'd recovered enough for them to continue. He hadn't cried in earnest since the first time, had given up on praying for it all to stop since the tenth time.

He used to think of home, of his friends, used to imagine their faces and repeat past conversations with them in his head in an attempt to distract himself, used to imagine them bursting in, guns blazing, to come rescue him from this hell. Eventually, he gave up on that too. Their names and faces faded to blurs, their voices unobtainable echoes, his memories of them jumbled thoughts that he was far too tired to bother sorting out. They weren't ever going to come for him, he knew that now. For whatever reason, he'd been abandoned, left to suffer at the hands of his captors for however long his body held out, or until he lost his mind completely.

When all was said and done, all that mattered was that he hadn't told them what they'd wanted to know. At times, he'd been afraid of what he might say against his will in a moment of weakness when they simply pushed him too far, too hard, to the point where everything he knew would pour out of him until his voice would give out. In the end, though, he'd held true to the promise he'd made from the very start, despite their persisting attempts to make him break it: from then on, they would not get a single word out of him.

A scraping at the door on the opposite side of his cell tore him from his drifting thoughts and left him trembling, in addition to his constant shivering, his ingrained fear stealing what little breath he had as the door was swung inwards to reveal his tormentors. There were three of them; the two that were first through the door were the muscle, who took great joy in causing him pain, and the third, their leader and the brains behind the operation, though he too took his turn on occasion.

One of them took a moment to turn the switch of the lamp attached to wall to the far left of the door, and he was suddenly terribly aware of the fact that, after the most recent humiliation, he had been far too drained to follow his usual routine of redressing himself in his boxers, the one article of clothing they'd left him since day one. The revelation had him shivering all the more.

Not wasting time with pleasantries, the two guards strode forward and each grabbed hold of an arm, hauling him sharply upright and ignoring the resulting moan as they dragged him over to the table at the center of the small room. With little care for the many unhealed, and improperly healed wounds his body suffered from, they deposited him unceremoniously on its surface and secured his hands and feet in the usual rope ties, which held them securely against the splintering wood. The rope cut into the skin of each limb, but he barely felt it over abrasions that were reopened in the same such manner practically on a daily basis.

A leaver at the table's base was cranked in order to tilt him at the usual angle of nearly ninety degrees, and when the leader – whom he distantly remembered naming Gary upon first meeting him – came to stand in front of him, it was out of habit that his eyes flickered down and to the side. A permanent addition to his conditioned consciousness knew by now that eye contact of any sort, at any time, meant an additional lash, or another broken bone as payment for the insult. His automatic reaction earned him a humorless chuckle.

"It is good to see you are finally learning your place," said Gary.

There was a small pause, then a vicious backhand to his cheek rocked his head painfully to the left, and he cringed, wondering what he'd done wrong, and fighting to hear the answer over the ringing in his ears.

"That," Gary explained, his tone flat, "was for not showing me the respect of redressing yourself before my return. As I have said, I take no joy from these acts, the means by which I question you, and therefore refuse to be received in such a distasteful manner." Gary paused again, as though waiting for him to have the nerve to retort, though they both knew all he would receive was silence.

Despite the predictability of the lack of response, Gary struck him again in the same place, and he felt the bruised skin tear under the carved metal of the ring on Gary's right ring finger. He hissed quietly at the sting, but otherwise did not react. A second later, the iron-like fist of thug number one – dubbed Vic – swung solidly into the ribs on his left side, stealing his breath and leaving him gasping futilely. He was left little time to recover as after a few seconds more, the same place was struck again, and again, until he felt a distinct crack and shift where previous breaks that had been toiling to heal themselves were re-broken in an instant. A sharp cry burst forth from him, silent tears streaming down his face, the blood roaring so loudly through his veins that he almost missed hearing the questions aimed at him with an all too familiar cold indifference.

"What is the 'Gate address to Atlantis? What is the size and condition of the army stationed there? What security protocols are in place in the event of an attack? How much of the city's weaponry is still operational?" Ignoring the questions as easily as if they hadn't been spoken, and doubting he could remember enough to answer them even if he'd wanted to, he focused solely on his tremulous breaths, working hard to stem the involuntary tears.

He didn't see the next hit coming before his side suddenly exploded in white hot agony, and through the pounding of his heart and a terrifying ripping sound, he distantly heard a long, ear-piercing scream. It wasn't until it finally trailed off into breathy moans that he realized, from his raw, aching throat, that it had come from him.

"Idiot! Look what you have done! If the pain does not kill him, then the amount of blood he is loosing certainly will!" Gary's reprimand was cut short at the chirping of his radio, and he moved away as he answered whoever was trying to reach him.

He could not hear what was being said, but could discern from sharp, demanding tones that something had gone wrong, an assumption that was confirmed as he heard the man's boots tromping towards the door.

"While I'm gone, one of you will guard the door, and the other will prepare the prisoner for transport. Understood?" A chorus of 'Yes sir's was followed by said door being slammed, and he blinked his graying vision clear enough to see thug number two – Roy – come towards him and reach up to first release his hands.

Having been hanging limply from the ties at such an angle, his arms fell to his side as he simply sagged forward onto Roy's shoulder, drawing a muttered curse from the man as he struggled to find a way to support him while untying his feet.

It was in those few seconds of indecision that, from where his head rested on Roy's shoulder, his eyes landed on the knife Roy kept in a pouch tucked in the back of his pants, and an incredible thing happened: for the first time since he'd woken up in the darkness of this cell, he felt no pain. A part of himself he'd thought he'd lost was taking hold of him, and where the pain had once been, raw energy began to swell, stilling the trembling in his limbs, chasing away the cold.

And then suddenly, he was in motion. Without a single thought, he swung up his arm and wrapped it around to Roy's back, pulling the knife free from its sheath. Before Roy could understand what had happened, he'd used his other hand to grasp the man's hair, yanking his head back and swiftly, viciously burying the knife to its hilt in the side of his neck. Roy's eyes, wide with shock, stared into his until he pushed the dying man backwards as he retrieved the knife, avoiding the spray of blood as he fell back against the table once more. Just as he was about to cut the rope that bound his feet together, and tethered him to the table's base, Vic was upon him, striking his wrist with the butt of his handgun so that he dropped the knife to the ground. The blow only served to solidify his cold determination; that was the last time this man would ever touch him.

Before Vic could even raise his weapon, he lunged forward, gripped his meaty head between his hands and, with a surge of adrenaline, wrenched it sharply to the right. A brutal snap sounded, and then Vic's legs buckled, pulling his unrepentant killer down on top of him as he fell.

Rolling stiffly off the body, he quickly retrieved the knife and used what little slack there was in the rope still tied to his ankles to pull himself the short distance to rest his back against the nearest wall. Unfortunately, he could already feel his newfound energy draining from him, leaving him shivering once more as the pain began its slow return, and, with a furtive glance at the dead men beside him, he pulled himself as far along the wall away from them as he could – which admittedly wasn't far – before beginning to saw at the rope. It was slow, tedious work as he fought to maintain a solid grip on the knife and the rope he was cutting with hands that had been repeatedly mangled, but he refused to give up.

He did not know where he would go whenever he managed to free himself; a sinking feeling in his woefully empty stomach told him he could never go back to Atlantis. He'd often thought that there had to be a reason why they had never come for him, and now he suspected it was because they had known that the moment he'd been captured, he was lost to them. He couldn't help but agree. His memories of how he used to be, the life he used to lead, were as vague and fleeting as those of the city he'd called home, and the people who had once been the closest thing he'd ever had to a family; he could never go back, because he knew he could never again be the man they wanted and needed him to be. That man was dead and gone – what was left of him was hardly worth saving.

There were a handful of other planets he could choose from whose 'Gate addresses his fractured thoughts had managed to cling to, he would simply have to pick the one where he could most easily go to disappear, and live what little of a life he still could in peace.

If he could just cut through the damn rope...

So focused was he on the task at hand that he never heard the door being slowly pushed open, nor did the few whispered words reach his ears. However, he froze for a moment when the achingly familiar voice of a person he couldn't quite remember – now no more than an arm's length away – pierced the relative silence, like the knife that was to earn him his freedom.

"McKay, get Becket on the radio. We need him down here... _now_."

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Anxiety and anticipation warred for dominance among all the occupants of the jumper as they emerged from the Stargate and immediately cloaked, flying through the midnight sky with their radar as their only guide in the darkness. It had been five months – five long months of searching, and hoping, and digging, and coming home with empty hands and trampled spirits. They'd followed every lead, interrogated every source they could pin down in surplus, scoured the planet where the battle that had taken him from them had taken place from ocean to ocean, and had still found nothing. Every clue was a dead end, every lead a misdirection, every safe house they raided of any past enemies of theirs abandoned, or infuriatingly clean slated. He was simply gone, and none of their desperate efforts seemed able to find him.

Until now.

Following a tip from the leader of one of the villages they traded with regularly, they'd gone to a market planet, and, after a grueling game of cat and mouse, had managed to capture the man who they'd been told was a deserter from the group of mercenaries they'd fought that fateful day five months ago.

Turning a cold shoulder to any of her usual diplomatic reservations, Elizabeth had allowed Ronon to be left alone with the prisoner in one of the city's secure rooms, one whose security cameras McKay reported to have 'accidentally' fried during a maintenance check of Atlantis' circuits a few hours earlier. When she had settled in with Teyla and Rodney in the adjoining room to wait, she was not surprised when they were promptly joined by Lorne and a dozen marines, and could assume with confidence that the remaining men and women under Lorne's temporary command weren't far away. No one appeared to notice the muffled cries and crashes coming from next door, and when Ronon appeared before them, knuckles bruised, and sheathing a bloodied boot knife, not one of them felt compelled to radio the infirmary, at least not right away. All that mattered were the five words he spoke in a voice that, while usually monotone, now carried the slightest of tremors, and an uncharacteristic well of churning emotion.

"I know where Sheppard is."

A mere twenty minutes later had Elizabeth and the team along with Dr. Becket geared up and relaying the plan of attack to Lorne and two dozen marines, all armed to the teeth and entirely committed, ready to do whatever it took to get to their commanding officer, and, in many cases, their friend. Through years of staggering courage, selflessness, and unfaltering dedication to the soldiers he served with and led, John had done more than earn their acceptance – he'd garnered an unbreakable loyalty from each and every one of them, and they would die before failing to do what they knew he would do for them without a moment's hesitation.

Once the details of the mission had been discussed, Elizabeth stood before the group one final time, wondering if any words of preparation or encouragement were sufficient for the importance of the task ahead. Instead, she settled for a statement that resonated, strong and clear, with a determination that brokered no arguments.

"_We are bringing him home_."

And so now they flew, three cloaked jumpers, side by side, towards the mountain compound that was home to the _Rishta_, a small army built for one sole purpose: to retake the city of Atlantis from the "false Ancestors", as they were apparently known. Ronon had managed to acquire a detailed description of the compound's layout, including its ten levels and countless corridors, and more importantly the secret access panel in the mountainside that would be their point of entrance. Once inside, they would split into two groups – one to search and secure the five levels above the ground floor, and one for the five levels bellow.

There were no official standing orders as to the rules of engagement, or to do with the taking of prisoners, but a general understanding went unspoken through the group: after five months of increasingly volatile anger, uncertainty, and fear, John Sheppard was the only person in that mountain that they desperately wanted to bring back alive; everyone else could either get out of their way, or die trying to stop them.

At long last, they landed in a clearing on the opposite side of a forest from the mountain, and the jumpers' passengers quickly emptied out, leaving behind only the pilot of each, who were instructed to be ready to takeoff the very moment they returned, and to remain cloaked until they did. With that, they silently and quickly made their way through the trees, and wasted no time in finding the hatch, right where they'd been told it would be. After quietly taking care of the four guards on patrol around it, they flooded into the compound, weapons at the ready.

For the moment, they were alone, and Elizabeth sent them off with orders to use their life signs detectors, and to mark the walls of the carved out tunnels so as to be able to find their way back out. Becket and Teyla went with Lorne's group to the upper levels, while Elizabeth stuck close to Ronon and Rodney's group as they moved to the passageway that would lead them deeper into the earth.

They didn't meet resistance until the second level, where they came upon a soldier patrolling the hall directly off the stairs who managed to hit a button on the wall to sound the alarm a second before a red blast punched a hole through his chest. Over the blaring shriek of the alarm, they heard the shouts of soldiers scrambling to mount a defense, and they knew they had to move quickly or risk being driven back. Room by room they went, shooting anything that appeared to be armed, or reaching for a weapon, until the level was cleared, and they could move down to the next.

The third level proved much more difficult, given that the men housed there had had much more time to prepare, and they found themselves halted in their advancements by defensive fire after only clearing two corridors. Not wanting to waste precious time, they divided their ranks, leaving ten, counting Elizabeth, to press on through the final corridors, while Ronon took Rodney and three marines to begin clearing the next level down.

Upon clearing the first corridor as being used for storage of supplies, Ronon instructed the marines to radio them immediately if they came under fire, and, with Rodney on his heels, proceeded down to the final level. Unlike the levels above them, this one was entirely silent, with the alarm barely audible through the layers of stone over their heads, and unlike any of the others they'd searched, this one was comprised of only one corridor, and it was lined with barred prison cells. Their anticipation rose to fever pitch, and they raced from cell to cell, ensuring each was empty before darting to the next, hoping each time to see chaotic dark hair and the Colonel's patented smirk as they were asked what had taken them so damn long.

As they reached the final cell and found it too to be empty, Rodney felt overwhelming disappointment threatening to choke him, until the two men spotted a rusted steel door embedded in the stone wall at the corridor's end that they had not noticed before. Wary of letting their hopes rise just yet, they silently approached the door, and after a deep breath, Rodney twisted the latch and swung the door inwards. A fetid stench of rot and decay nearly overpowered them, but they allowed themselves only a moment to get accustomed to it before striding into dimly lit space. Nothing could prepare them for what they found.

At the center of the medium-sized space was what appeared to be a wooden table, though the crank visible at its base had it positioned almost perpendicularly to the floor, its surface facing away from them. A lamp secured on the wall to the left of the table illuminated the space just enough for them to be make out several things: two uniformed bodies, sprawled next to each other on the ground on the other side of the table, and a filthy looking piece of rumpled material, just a few feet in front of them.

Without speaking, Ronon went to the bodies, and Rodney to the material, which he picked up by the very tip of the corner to examine at arm's length. His stomach twisted when he realized what he held, and he swallowed thickly to keep from being sick.

"They've gotta be Sheppard's," he whispered, uncertain as to why he felt the need, but unwilling to speak louder. Ronon glanced up from where he had knelt between the bodies, taking in the dirt-covered and blood stained boxers with hardening eyes. In turn, Rodney's gaze traveled down to the clearly dead men, one with a gaping hole in his jugular, the other with his neck protruding at a nauseating angle. "Who do you think killed them?"

Ronon said nothing in response, having stood up and settled on studying the table surface in front of him with chilling intensity. Afraid to look, but knowing there was nothing else he could do, Rodney walked over to stand beside him, baulking at the sight of the heavily bloodstained table and the matching ropes at the very top. Certain that he was on the verge of loosing the battle with his nausea, and desperately needing to focus on anything else besides the gruesome table and the piece of ruined cloth he still held, Rodney turned and walked the few steps to the lamp, dialing up its intensity slightly in a pointless effort to chase away the remaining shadows from this torture chamber.

Ronon's words, spoken at full volume startled him, and their meaning sent his heart racing wildly.

"McKay, get Becket on the radio. We need him down here... _now_."

Whipping around so fast it made him lightheaded, Rodney practically stumbled to Ronon's side, about to follow his gaze when the smallest of movements in his peripheral vision drew his attention back to that ghastly table, but more specifically to the rope that he only now noticed was attached to the base. Frowning as it quivered, his eyes trailed the length that led away from the table, and felt his heart stutter in his chest as they found the feet it was attached to, only to stop beating entirely as his brain struggled to process the sight of the nude form curled up against the wall mere feet away from them, head bowed, attempting to cut himself free with a bloodied knife.

His first coherent thought was that there was no way this was John Sheppard. This emaciated, beaten, broken creature before them could not be the man who just five months ago had been his brother, his best friend, and in so many ways his teacher, the one who always had the answers when he was ready to admit defeat, who always pulled them through when failure seemed inevitable, who smiled and joked when facing down the worst of enemies. But there was no denying the truth; even gaunt and battered as he was, it was unmistakably Sheppard, right down to his trademark wild hair.

Next, he realized they should be grateful that it had been them to find him; John wouldn't want soldiers who normally looked to him for strength to see him so vulnerable. Rodney wanted to be able to feel relieved that they had finally found him, but a new terror had rushed in to take the place of the old one as he took in the heavy bruising that covered his body from head to toe, the labored, faltering breaths, the torn skin of his wrists and ankles... the list went on. What had these monsters done to him to get what they wanted?

His hand shook as he lifted it to activate his radio.

"Becket, this is Rodney, come in." He didn't have to wait long before the doctor's breathless voice keyed in.

"_Rodney, this is Becket, tell me you found him_."

Rodney struggled in vain to keep his voice steady as he answered. "We... we found him. We're in a cell at the end of the corridor on the fifth level." A vice seemed to squeeze tighter around his chest the longer he looked down at what was left of his friend. "You'd better hurry... he's in really bad shape."

Elizabeth's voice came on immediately, issuing orders for Teyla to escort Becket to the bottom level, and for everyone else to finish clearing the compound, after which they were to regroup on the ground floor, and keep their exit secured. Once he'd heard her state that she would follow after Becket, Rodney turned off his radio, and returned his focus to the Colonel, who had yet to speak, or even acknowledge their presence as he continued his painstaking work.

With deliberate slowness, Ronon took a small step forward and dropped carefully to a crouch in front of him.

"Hey Buddy," he said, in the softest tone Rodney had ever heard from him. "Can I give you a hand with that?" Still not getting any sort of reaction, Ronon started to reach very slowly for the hand gripping the knife.

Moving so quickly that Rodney almost missed it, John's arm lashed out, and Ronon jerked back with a hiss, clamping a hand down on the gash he'd received on his forearm as he backed up a few inches. He raised the hand of the wounded arm, palm up in a placating gesture.

"Okay, it's okay, I won't take it," he said gently, and the knife wielding, painfully thin arm shook as it was held defensively out in the space between himself and Ronon. "I'll let you finish, I promise. You're almost through."

At his soft reassurances, John gradually relaxed, returning to his work. During the entire confrontation, he hadn't once lifted his eyes from his feet, and Rodney fought to quell his rapidly growing anxiety. He really wished Becket would hurry the hell up.

Rodney was surprised to find that Ronon hadn't been lying, as hardly a minute later the knife sliced through the last fiber, and John pulled the rope from around his ankles, pushing it to the side and taking a moment to simply breathe, a task that appeared to be getting more difficult by the second. A thought occurred to him then, and he too approached carefully, holding out the one piece of dignity he could offer him, while keeping a watchful eye on the knife in his grasp. John's sunken eyes lifted ever so slightly, and an unnameable emotion flashed across his bruised and bloodied face before he reached up with his free hand, barely managing to grasp the offered material before his arm fell back to his side. It physically hurt to watch him struggle silently to pull the tattered underwear up over his legs, and to listen to his quiet sigh of immeasurable relief when he managed to pull the waistband up to rest on his protruding hip bones. His friends looked on silently, each wanting nothing more than to help him, to take him away from this place, and praying fervently that he would let them.

The next moment John was moving away from them, pulling himself along the floor with his back to the wall and the knife once more held out defensively, his eyes riveted on the ground by their feet as they followed cautiously beside him, allowing a decent amount of space between them. He'd made it halfway across the next wall before Becket, Teyla and Elizabeth ran into the room, freezing just inside at the sight that greeted them. At their sudden entrance, John's movements and breath faltered, his down-turned eyes widening.

Rodney motioned urgently to them. "Come away from the door, don't make him feel trapped in here." None questioned him, moving swiftly to stand beside the other two.

Evidently, the extra company served to remind John of his near defenseless position, and, turning to the side, facing the door, he used his free hand to grip the rough edges of the wall, working to try and pull himself up to stand. When the attempt ended in him falling back to his knees, the knife briefly lowered, Becket took a step closer, hoping to take advantage of the opportunity. A hand gripped his shoulder solidly and he looked up to see Ronon shake his head.

"Don't – he doesn't do good with being touched." Becket eyed the exposed slash on his arm.

"Did he do that?"

"It was my fault – I got too close, and I scared him. I should've known better."

Almost as one, three gazes settled on the bodies by the table, and the doctor's voice became grim, but unsympathetic. "And he did that as well?"

"Not too long before we showed up – looked like he was in the middle of escaping when we got here," came the answer, and they could hear the pride in it, as well as the disappointment that he had been denied the opportunity to exact the full extent of a Sateadan's vengeance on John's captors.

"Just... give him a minute," Rodney interjected, and they watched him try once again, this time successfully, to pull himself to his feet, collectively pained as John gave a soft moan, sagging slightly against the wall as his chest heaved and his legs shook. He took care however to not lower the knife again, ensuring that they kept their distance, and increasing the doctor's frustration.

"I can't 'give him a minute' Rodney," he said worriedly, mentally cataloging what little he could see in the inadequate light from where he stood. "For all we know, he could have internal injuries that are hemorrhaging as we speak. The longer I do nothing, the worse it could be getting - he needs immediate treatment."

"I believe Dr. McKay is trying to say that we must give the Colonel the opportunity to come to _us_," Teyla stated calmly, her tone belying the fear in her eyes. "Given the suffering he has clearly undergone, his state of mind may be as such that he may not yet realize who we are, or even be aware that we are here to help him."

Though disturbed by the possibility, the others were forced to acknowledge the probable truth to her words, and Becket turned back to Ronon.

"Have you tried speaking to him since your arrival?"

"Only a little – he wouldn't look at me, or answer, but I know that he understood what I was saying."

Elizabeth spoke then, her attention solely on the man barely managing to stay standing in front of them. "If no one has any objections, I'd like to try."

Receiving wordless nods, she stepped just a hair closer to him, her own fear quelled and expertly channeled.

"John?" The man stiffened, but otherwise didn't react to her voice. She swallowed her apprehension and tried again. "John, I know you can hear me, and I ask that you listen. We've been looking for you for a long time. We've come to help you. I cannot even begin to imagine what you've been put through these past five months, and I realize that trust is something you may not be willing to give, but that is precisely what I need to ask for – I need you to trust me. We're all here – me, Carson, Teyla, Rodney, Ronon... we're all here to bring you home, John."

His head shook weakly back and forth in denial, but she studiously ignored it, seeing that the knife had lowered a little, that his guard may lowering with it. Encouraged, she mentally collected the terrible essence of five months of fruitless days, and sleepless nights, melding it together with the entirety of the relief she'd known for those few minutes between Rodney's reporting to have found him and walking into the nightmare that this room presented, and poured its potent mix into her tone.

"The men that brought you to this place, the men that have been hurting you... they're gone, all of them. There is no one left to keep you from leaving. Please, John, come home with us."

At her imploring words, the knife lowered even further, the expression on his face showing that he wanted to believe her, that perhaps he was beginning to. Then suddenly his eyes shot back to the door, his face flooding with panic, and they all looked as well to see Lorne and his second in command standing motionless in the doorway in full tac gear, P-90's in hand, faces almost entirely in shadows.

In the split second it took for the room's occupants to realize how their appearance and stance would be taken, and for them to look back to the Colonel, he'd flattened his back against the wall that was holding him up so as to keep them all in his line of sight, and he'd swiftly raised the knife to hold it pressed against his own throat.

"_No_, John wait! _It's okay_, they're not here to hurt you!" Elizabeth yelled over the other's cries, holding her arms outstretched behind her to motion them to stay back. "Lorne, move away from the door, _now_!" she hissed, eyes not leaving Sheppard's, which had raised fully for the first time since their arrival. They met hers for one fleeting moment before settling quickly back on the ground, the terror and desperate determination speaking for themselves: if faced with the possibility of returning to captivity, John would not allow himself to be taken alive. The wave of pain that began to wash through her at the idea was interrupted by Lorne's quiet, cautious inquiry from somewhere close behind her.

"I can guess what's going on for myself well enough, but I gotta ask – his side... are those...?"

"His ribs? Yes Major – I believe that they were recently broken, and then the break was beaten until the bones were driven outwards through his skin." She blinked at Becket's answer, staring in shock at the hideously painful looking wound that – until John had faced them fully – had been hidden from view on his left side, as he'd pulled himself along the wall, and to his feet.

"Son of a _bitch_." She wasn't sure who said it, but agreed wholeheartedly, and the need to diffuse the situation became even more dire as she took in the pale, jagged bone edges that had torn through paper thin skin, and the copious amount of blood that painted a dark trail down to the waistband his meager scrap of clothing. Despite it all, however, John never wavered, somehow remaining standing while the knife maintained its position, a small trickle of blood welling behind it.

Before she could even begin to think of what to say, Lorne stepped past her, standing a foot closer than any of them had dared to. He spoke clearly and concisely, standing fully at attention, the picture of a soldier reporting to his CO.

"Colonel Sheppard, Major Lorne reporting for duty, sir. With your permission, we'll proceed with the retreat of all personnel to the Stargate. The jumpers are standing by, as ordered, for direct transport back to Atlantis." Surprise and then confusion animated his features, though the knife held fast, and Lorne's tone hardened. "Sir, I must stress that though the strike teams report the enemy to have been all but neutralized, there is no telling when reinforcements could show up. Respectfully sir, I have to insist that we proceed immediately to the rendezvous point. We're waiting for your authorization." The knife had lowered almost an inch, his gaze drifting and uncertain, and Lorne pressed a final time, never faltering. "_We have to leave_. Do we have a go? _Do we have a go Colonel_?"

For one breathless moment, Lorne feared he may have pushed too hard, and then John's expression suddenly cleared, his shoulders and back straightening almost imperceptibly as he lowered the knife to his side and gave a faint nod. A moment later his posture sagged, and his eyes were rolling into the back of his skull, his legs folding beneath him. Lorne darted forward and caught him under his arms, carefully lowering him the rest of the way to the ground. He had been about to lay him on his back to be examined when he got his first good look at it.

"_Shit_. Doc, his back's a mess – looks like the work of a whip." Dropping down beside him, Becket took a quick glance and cursed under his breath.

"Alright, there isn't much I can do for him here. I want gauze and pressure applied to the worst of the lashes on his back, and under _no circumstances_ are any one of you to touch his ribs – tape down gauze as best you can around the bone, and the rest will be done in surgery. And get a blankets around his waist and legs; we have to push back shock for as long as we can."

While he started an IV, his orders were carried out without question or hesitation, and within minutes, he'd been strapped into the field gurney, covered as best as they could manage, and they were moving as a group back down the corridor, relieved to leave that room behind them. Ronon and Lorne bore the shockingly light load back up the stairs, Rodney and Teyla maintaining pressure while Carson guarded the IV, and the rest of it became a blur of motion and sound.

If asked later, none would be able to precisely describe their return to the surface, and their retreat through the woods to bundle their precious cargo into a jumper, with no other goal but to get him home. The next thing any of them would remember would be standing outside the doors to the operating room, listening to the wailing of monitors and the shouts of Carson and his staff as they rushed desperately to save him before they retreated together to the observation deck, none with the will to sleep, and fewer still with the strength to look down on the scene bellow them.

All they could do was wait, and hope.

* * *

It was the following afternoon by the time a nurse came to tell them that the operation had been successfully finished, and they were led to Carson's office to await his return from performing the post surgery examination. They looked up expectantly when Carson finally joined them, looking even more exhausted than they felt as he pulled up his chair to sit in front of theirs, setting his chart down on the edge of his desk. He found he couldn't bring himself to look up from his hands as he began recounting the terrible discoveries he'd made in a tremulous voice.

"Based on the sheer amount of damage we repaired these past fifteen hours, Colonel Sheppard should not be alive; it's nothing short of a bloody miracle he survived even a month under those conditions, never mind five.

"Aside from the four freshly broken ribs that we reinserted and repaired with pins, our scans found evidence of repeated fractures, and improper healing in all of his ribs, both of his collar bones, both of his feet, his ankles, wrists, his hips, and all of his fingers. The inversed edges of the four ribs managed to puncture his lung, which was filled nearly entirely with fluids by the time he had been prepped for surgery, and we've had to re-break and set his fingers, wrists and ankles if he's to have a chance at regaining full usage of them.

"The rope they used to bind his wrists and ankles tore away too much of his skin, and skin from his thigh was grafted on in its place. Some of the lashes on his back have healed, but repeated reopening of some of them, along with overlapping abrasions made stitching nearly impossible. A large number of them are seriously infected, with signs of the beginnings of sepsis, so he's been put on as many antibiotics as I thought safe to give him. The scarring will be severe, and, I'm afraid, permanent. The massive bruising from what had to have been daily beatings were tied to damage to his liver and kidneys, as well as near fatal internal bleeding. Externally, he lost nearly half of his body's blood supply. We nearly lost him more than once in surgery, because the transfusions weren't coming fast enough to compensate."

At this point he paused, gathering the strength he knew he would need to relate the worst of his news, and forcing himself to look at them all directly.

"In addition, he is suffering from severe dehydration, and starvation, which has left him dangerously underweight, putting a strain on his internal organs, his heart especially. All of that aside..." His voice became choked, his throat threatening to close in an effort to stop his next words, but he knew that he had to tell them – if there was any chance at all of him recovering, his team, his family, needed to know the truth in its entirety.

"Carson?"

There was no shortage of apprehension on any of their faces, or in Elizabeth's voice, and he knew that what he had to say could be all that it took to shatter them at last.

Becket cleared his throat, and barely managed to speak above a whisper.

"Based on the amount of internal and external scarring, and fresher injuries, I... I have determined that John was raped, brutally, and regularly, throughout his five months as their prisoner."

It was the last straw.

Ronon's anguished roar reverberated in the small room as he turned away from them, the consequences of his failure to John like a knife to his chest, while Elizabeth shook through silent weeping, Teyla furiously biting back tears of her own as she wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders, determined to be strong. Rodney, in the mean time, had gone stark white and jumped to his feet, and he began to pace the small office in stumbling, dizzying circles.

"We should've found him sooner... _I _ should've found him sooner. He shouldn't have been there for so long..." He raked his shaking hands through his hair, gripping them together at the back of his head, his heart pounding wildly, breaths coming as gasps. "Five months... how could we have left him there for _five months_? How could we _do_ that to him?"

"Rodney..." He back-peddled away from Carson's reaching hand, eyes squeezed shut against vividly imagined torment, and the beginnings of a migraine, as he leaned heavily against the wall.

"I should've found him sooner... What did I miss? I must've missed _something_... Why did we let him play decoy on that damn planet? I said I should've gone... it should've been me... we were cut off from the gate, we let him draw the fire and lead them away... _we should've gone after him_..." He felt himself begin to slide to his knees, his head splitting open, and simply let himself slide. "How could we have let them _hurt_ him like that? We let them break him..."

He didn't realize he was sprawled on the floor against the wall until he opened his eyes and saw that Becket was suddenly kneeling next to him, one hand on his shoulder while the other gripped his wrist between his fingers.

"For God's sake, Rodney, your pulse is through the roof, and you're shaking like a leaf. When was the last time you ate and slept?"

"I don't know," he mumbled faintly, and his upper body began to slide to the side until it was caught and held steady by the Scottish doctor, whose face had begun to blur.

"That does it, we're getting you to a bed. You've neglected yourself for quite long enough."

It was then that Rodney noticed that the other three had joined them on the floor, and all four of them bore matching looks of guilt, stress, and fatigue, which, he realized with a jolt, he'd just succeeded in worsening, which was the very last thing he'd ever want to do. His own guilt intensified painfully, and he fought through the pounding of his head and the graying of his vision to take it back.

"'M sorry – forget it, I'm fine... please, don't be worried. I'll... I'll go grab something to eat, and take a nap, I promise..." He pulled together every drop of energy he had and pushed himself back up to his feet, only to find his legs refused to hold him. Luckily, Ronon caught him before he could fall back down, and, much to his embarrassment, scooped him up in his arms and carried him from Becket's office like an infant. His efforts to swat at him resulted in little more than a twitch of his finger, and he sagged at last in defeat, and was deposited limply onto the bed next to Sheppard's drawn privacy curtains.

"Don't apologize Rodney, you've got nothing to be sorry for," Becket sighed, and Rodney watched dimly as the rest of the team retrieved chairs and blankets, settling between Rodney, and where they knew Sheppard rested, clearly and flatly determined that they would not be convinced to leave. Rodney slowly looked back to Becket's sad smile. "Rest up lad, we'll look after you, and one of us will wake you if anything changes."

The last Rodney heard before succumbing to exhaustion was the steady whooshing of a ventilator, and the slow, irregular heartbeats belonging to the man who lay hidden from his supposed rescuers.

* * *

TBC


End file.
